So that was July. I couldn’t concentrate on anything and J. said, it’s because you do the same things all the time. The same things I do all the time:
1. Write or try to write
3. Read something by or about Henry James
4. Poke the Internet with a sharp stick until it yelps
5. Turn to J. for comfort
6. Digital audio
8. Collapse and start anew
You can see that I am not outwardly directed. Not even this is outwardly directed; it only goes as far as the very large, semitransparent mask I’ve made. I live in a secure nest, with the books and records in alphabetical order, and every sunny day is largesse, excessive, precisely because no one will ever expect me to pay for it. It will have been good. The best days are those when I can look at the present as if it were the past.
I always have high expectations for summer and they never pan out, leaving me depressed.